The Inbetweeners 3 Is Finally Happening, And Honestly, My Therapist Is Going To Need A Raise
**NETFLIX CONFIRMS THE ONLY PIECE OF UK CULTURE AMERICANS ACTUALLY UNDERSTAND**
Look, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but the universe has decided to hit the “reset” button on my frontal lobe. In a move that has simultaneously cured my depression and reignited my crippling secondhand embarrassment, Netflix has officially confirmed that a third season of the absolute trainwreck that is *The Inbetweeners* is in development. Yes, you read that correctly. The lads are back, and they’re presumably still failing to pull.
For the uninitiated (read: you poor, sheltered Americans who think “banter” is a type of cheese), *The Inbetweeners* was a British comedy that ran from 2008 to 2010, chronicling the gloriously pathetic lives of four suburban teenagers. We’re talking Will, the socially awkward nerd who thinks he’s above everyone; Simon, the pathetic pushover who cries at the drop of a hat; Jay, the pathological liar who claims to have a 12-inch penis but can’t even talk to a cashier; and Neil, the absolute caveman who is too stupid to realize he’s the most successful one of the group. They navigated the hellscape of sixth form, attempted to talk to girls, and went on a holiday to Malia that should have been classified as a war crime against tourism.
Now, a decade and a half later, Netflix is dragging these beautiful disasters out of the mothballs for a third go-around. And honestly, my first thought wasn’t “Oh, cool.” It was “Oh, God, what fresh hell is this?” Because let’s be real: the original series was a masterclass in capturing the specific, agonizing terror of being a horny, clueless teenager. It was *Superbad* if *Superbad* was set in a grey, rainy suburb where the biggest thrill was buying a dodgy cider from a corner shop. The two follow-up movies (yes, there were movies, and yes, they were surprisingly decent) wrapped things up with a neat little bow of them going to uni and ruining a wedding.
So why, in the name of all that is holy, are we going back?
According to the press release that just shattered my television screen, the new series will catch up with the gang as grown-ass adults. Will is apparently a “successful” lawyer (read: a corporate sellout who still uses the word “clunge” in his inner monologue). Simon is, predictably, in a miserable, sexless marriage with the absolute banshee that is Carli, the girl he obsessed over for two entire seasons. Jay is… well, Jay is probably still claiming he’s a millionaire with a supermodel wife, despite working at a call center. And Neil? Neil is probably a dad of three who still doesn’t understand how babies are made.
The internet, as you can imagine, is losing its collective mind. Twitter (I refuse to call it X, it’s a stupid name) is currently a warzone of people either screaming “LET IT GO” or “FINALLY, MY CHILDHOOD IS COMPLETE.” And honestly, I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, clutching my pearls and whispering, “Why would you do this to me?”
Here’s the thing about bringing back a beloved comedy: you are walking a tightrope over a pit of razor-sharp nostalgia. Get it wrong, and you’ve ruined the legacy. Just ask the cast of *Arrested Development* about that Netflix revival season that shall not be named. It was so bad it made the George Bush Sr. cameo look like Oscar-bait. The fear is that the new *Inbetweeners* will just be a bunch of middle-aged men doing the same jokes but with worse knees and more hair loss. The magic of the original was that they were *supposed* to be pathetic. They were teenagers. It was expected. Watching a 40-year-old Will McKenzie try to do a “bus wanker” gesture is just going to be sad. Depressing, even. Like watching a retired boxer get back in the ring and get his face caved in.
But hold on. Let’s play devil’s advocate for a second, because I’m a sucker for punishment.
The creators, Damon Beesley and Iain Morris, are no dummies. They know that a straight-up reboot would be a disaster. They’ve stated in interviews that this is about exploring how these guys’ insecurities have aged (or, more likely, failed to age). There is something deeply, darkly funny about the idea of Jay being a middle-aged loser still telling the same lies, or Simon finally realizing that the girl he put on a pedestal is just a regular, slightly mean, aging woman. It’s a commentary on the death of youthful ambition. It’s about the fact that you never really “grow out” of being an idiot; you just get a mortgage and a receding hairline.
Plus, from a purely selfish, American perspective, I’m just starved for content that doesn't involve a Marvel character or a true crime doc about a guy who killed his wife because she burned his grilled cheese. We need more awkward, British, self-deprecating humor. We need to see people fail in spectacularly mundane ways. We need to see four guys trying to navigate a pub quiz and failing because Neil thinks the capital of France is “London.” It’s a palate cleanser from all the high-octane, CGI-heavy nonsense we usually get fed.
And let’s be honest with ourselves, the state of the world is a dumpster fire. We’re dealing with economic collapse, political chaos, and the constant existential dread of AI taking our jobs. In times like these, we don’t need prestige drama. We need to watch Will McKenzie have an anxiety attack because he has to order a round of drinks in a crowded bar. We need that catharsis. We need to look at these fictional idiots and say
Final Thoughts
Having greenlit a third film without the original creative trio of Damon Beesley and Iain Morris at the helm, Netflix is betting that the brand’s crude nostalgia outweighs its actual authorship—a risky gambit that risks reducing the lads’ painfully relatable cringe to a hollow, focus-grouped greatest hits. For a generation that has aged into mortgages and hangovers, the real tragedy isn’t whether Will fancies a new girl, but that the streaming giant seems to misunderstand the show’s enduring magic: it was never about the gross-out gags, but the brutal, unflinching honesty of teenage inadequacy. Ultimately, this feels less like a reunion and more like a corporate exhumation, and I’ll be watching with the same morbid, cringing fascination I once reserved for Neil’s ill-fated attempts at seduction.